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Sunday, September 21, 2014

Having
grown up in a joint family, I have always been extremely close to my
grandparents. From as long as I can remember till the age of fourteen, when I
got a separate room to myself, I would sleep with my dada-dadi every night. I’d slumber away with my arms spread out
like Christ the Redeemer, with dadaji
on one side and dadi on the other. It
was one of the many perks that came with being the eldest grandchild, like
having the whole family including the unmarried chacha’s and bua’s gush
over you all day, clicking photographs, getting you toys and taking you for
evening walks every now and then. I was quite the head-turner for
twenty-year-old women in the colony too, and the erstwhile young peeps of the
Ahuja family would take me for a handsome number of evening strolls frequently.
In hindsight, I was probably being used as a prop to get some action by almost
everyone in the family except my grandparents. But aware of the testosterone
high in one’s twenties, I refuse to judge.

I
was a very well potty-trained child. Even though the dadi and the bua, at
times, speak about how “kitni tumhari
potty dhoyi hai bachpan mein” to express overflowing emotions of love, I
understand the sentiment because over-dramatization is pretty much a norm in my
family. However, I’ll be honest that vomit retention and management was not one
of my strongest skill sets. The family would take a number of steps to keep me
from puking and ruining the bed sheets at night. A small bucket for me to puke
into would be kept right next to the bed and newspaper would be spread on the floor
because I was more of a Bhim than Arjun when it came to hitting bulls eye with
my projectiles. I was also made to have a spoonful of brandy as charnamrit for keeping the inner beast
calm, but its effect was more of keeping me from remembering the mighty battle
the grandparents and the parents fought every night, cleaning ulti at 2 a.m. I would just wake up in
the morning, puke some more and trot smilingly off to school.

The dada-dadi not only bore the brunt of the
extra responsibilities, as mentioned above, that came with letting me sleep
with them but also never complained much about my sleep-talking or involuntary rotating
of my body around its axis like I was some veer-putra
of the dharti ma, kicking everyone
and everything that came in its path, which was mostly my dadaji’s head and my dadi’s
stomach.

Now
that this is shaping into a little narration of my time sleeping with my
grandparents, it would be important to mention that my dadi has never been much of a bedtime story teller. Your grandparents must’ve
told you some stories in your time, but my dadi
knew just one little story which she narrated to me every single night! It was called
the “ganje ki kahaani”. Its
appropriateness for a six year old and morals are kind of questionable, but I’ll
let you judge for yourself. Story time! Yay!

So,
there was a ganja who used to sit on
top of a baer tree. (Side note: Don’t
read it like Baer from Moser-Baer. I’m talking about the little green fruit called baer. Or beyr/ber?) He would give baer to all the passers-by who asked for
some. One day, a lady came up to him and said, “Ganje ganje, thode baer toh dede.” To which the ganja said, “Jholi aage kar”, and the lady replied
with “Jholi mein mere kitne chhed hain.”
Then the ganja said, “Haath aage kar”,
and got the reply, “Haath mein mere kitne
chhed hain.” (I know it sounds kind of crazy because I don’t know haath mein chhed kaise hote hain, but when
asked, I was told that if someone spreads open one’s hands and arms, one is
unable to catch baer. Sounds legit,
but I don’t know how much my dadi
would score on the CAT even if it tested us on Verbal Ability in Hindi.) Moving
on, the lady suggested that the ganja
wrap some baer in his pagdi and lower them from the tree for
the woman to collect. But as soon as he lowered his arm to give the baer, he was pulled down and put in a
sack, which the lady carried on her back into the forest.

The
woman walked and walked till she really badly wanted to go pee and couldn’t
hold it till she got back home. So while she went away to relieve herself, the ganja came out of the sack, filled it
with stones and hay and ran back home. The woman then carried the sack back
home, cursing it continuously in the choicest of Punjabi cuss words because the
hay pricked her back and she thought the ganja
was pinching her patootie. She was in for a big
shock on reaching her home in the forest when she found that the ganja had escaped.

The
next month, the lady came back to the baer
tree and asked the ganja for baer. The ganja said, “jholi kar” and then “haath kar”, getting the same old replies
from the woman. So he recognized her to be the witch who had tried to kidnap
him the previous month and said, “Tu wohi
hai na jo mujhe bori mein bandh karke le jaa rahi thi!” The witch
immediately defended herself with, “Nahi
nahi, main toh teri mummy ki saheli hoon. Dekh mere haathon mein tel. Abhi teri
mummy ke baal kanghi karke aayi hoon.”

The ganja was asked to lower his
turban for the baer and was again
pulled into the sack. (Smartass!)

This
time, the witch held her bladder tight and ran back home. There, she asked her
daughter to cook the ganja while she
got some groceries from the market. On returning from the market, she saw that the dish
was ready and she happily sat down to gulp it all down. While she ate the human meat, she offered some to her daughter. The daughter refused to touch it, ran to the
door instead and sang aloud: “Apni kudi nu khaale
oye; apni kudi nu khaale oye.” Turned out that the ganja had cooked the witch's daughter instead and served the same to her own mother. End of story!

It
may seem like the story had no moral values to convey and the plot twist is a little
screwed up because apparently the ganja looked like the witch’s daughter, but my grandparents have
given me a lot of such seemingly insignificant yet wonderful memories, which I will cherish for a lifetime. They have continuously showered upon me unparalleled love that they communicate in ways that they know best. It still continues in words like, “Main toh apne par-pote ko dekh ke jaaungi.”

The ganje ki kahaani, in my dadi's gentle voice, has also brought the Secret
into practice and instructed the Universe to give me all that I had grown up
hearing about. Ganjaapan! It still remains
with me like blessings from my dadi,
who makes it a point to cover the bald-patch with her hand every time that she touches
my head to give aashirwad.

I can possibly not express the amount of respect and love I feel for my grandparents. But this is just a little expression of gratitude for giving me company every night during my growing up years. Thank you! They collectively made the good nights some of the best nights I've had.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

The
new session of Delhi University started a little over a month ago and if things
still go about like they used to when I was in college, college society
auditions must be at their peak right now. Or maybe things happen too soon
nowadays and the recruitments have already been done. But loyalty towards the
society in the first two months is equivalent to Charlie Sheen for at least
half the new recruits. So, if you plan to ditch your current society and join
another in the guise of “my parents don’t allow me to stay back so late”, here’s your guide to deciding on
which college society to join.

Street Play

The
Street Play society is one of the most sought after societies in college. I
mean, why wouldn’t anything that recognizes your talent in being able to shout
at the top of your voice for hours together and sing raunchy ‘90s songs like “chhat pe soya tha behnoi” be appealing!
This society will probably have the most number of rounds when it comes to
auditions, but trust me, the only basis they reject you on is “bhai, yeh banda bada South Delhi type hai;
iske bass ki nahi hai”. Except, if you’re a hot girl. I mean, let’s not kid
ourselves, every society in a co-ed DU college has a hot girl quota.

To
be able to fit in, you must have an undying love for street food, a collective
crush on the lead dancer from the Dance Society, a soul that cannot keep itself
from dancing to the dhol and a palate
for adrak wali chai. Don’t worry
about the script; the seniors will anyway not accept anything that you write,
and mostly work on it themselves. The boys must look earthy with stubbles that
would give Markand Deshpande a complex. Parallely, the women needn’t worry too
much; they just signed up for a free daily mud pack for the next three years of
their lives. Stubble, optional.

Being
a member of this society will be a brilliant thing to put on your CV because
it’ll teach you team work and blah blah among other important things like how to
not let the person who bought Maggi from the canteen have it himself, and how
to fit thirteen people in an auto rickshaw and then not even care to check if
it breaks a world record because abhi toh
dhol bhi fit kar lenge.

Dance Society

Now,
I'm a firm believer of the fact that every woman is beautiful and the media
presents a very skewed image of what should be considered good looking *cue for
the feminists to applaud*, but let's just say that the Dance Society kind of,
by chance, in a way happens to house all the women from college who fit the
image projected by the media in a great way. But it's
such a strange coincidence because the street play peeps dance most to Yo Yo
Honey Singh when the muse for all his music is in the Dance Society.

To
fit in this club of showstoppers, you need to be extremely hoity-toity but
believe otherwise. I mean, you don't wear Zara and then dance to cheap Hindi
music for fun. You dance to cheap Hindi music because you want crazy audience
response during your performance at the next college fest, or because you think
OMG, this new song is so funny and chhichhora,
he he he. Also, an affinity towards green-room girl politics masked under
glittery eye-shadow is kind of a given.

The
guys will mostly only be a handful in this woman dominated club, and be well
built. But whatevs, they're just needed to flex muscles, lift some women during
performances and do the usual moon walk shit.

Music Society

Being
able to play an instrument or sing beautifully isn't the only requirement of
MuSoc. You must, at all times, be ready to sing a Happy Birthday song in
harmony whenever you find out about someone's birthday. As a girl, you must be
sugary sweet, just like your voice and be able to rock the Western accent like
no other while singing an English song, and then also amaze everyone with an
equally beautiful Shreya Ghoshal cover. The boys may either part their hair
from the side like a nona bacha and
proudly exhibit the fashion in which they meet the expectations that Hindustani
Music had of them, or be the complete opposite with a goatee, crazy hair and a
band with a name like Fusion Mafia Collective something.

A
collective hatred for Punjabi Music from anyone other than Jaspinder Narula and
a love for Coke Studio and Coldplay is a prerequisite. Also, member of MuSoc or
not, you can’t help but be friends with these guys! They’re pretty awesome.

Commerce/Economics/Entrepreneurship/Marketing
Society

The
mystery of the purpose of this society’s existence will bring Agrasen ki Baoli
to shame. These guys will organize one event towards the end of the year and
will be mostly seen freaking out about “bhai,
koi contact nikaal sponsorship ke liye”. I don’t see the point in why they
get to gloat about being a part of a society the whole year round. The only
skill you require to get in is to have a relative who will be ready to sponsor
the event. Most of their work involves arranging for flower bouquets and
mementos for the judges, and go around for sponsorship meetings. Also, if they
fear that people might not turn up for the event, they’ll put in a word with
the Principal, who will make it mandatory for everyone to attend with threats
of compulsory attendance or some such.

More
publicized than the event will be their after party photos on facebook, which
are nothing but pictures of a bunch of people dressed in formals having dinner
at Berco’s. Also, someone needs to tell them to stop going on about how much of
a success the show was.

Another
word of caution: If the society members tell you that one of the benefits of
joining would be that you would get the experience of organizing an event,
which is like a crazy big deal with companies when they come for placements;
trust me, it’s not. You don’t even get to officially go for Antaragni or Oasis
at IIT-K and BITS, Pilani, respectively. What’s the point in getting to go
about: “Bhai, unofficially jaane mein koi
panga toh nahi hai?” all the time!

Probably
the only reason you should apply for this club is if you’re one of those
start-up guys who has a photo of Steve Jobs as your computer wallpaper and you
keep making random websites all the time. It’ll just go with your image; that’s
it.

Others

The
Placement Cell will have people who believe their stint will help them secure
better placements at the end of three years. Also, they have an air of self
importance that says, “I’m in the P-Cell, I’m so smart, you’re so dumb. Haha.”
I mean, they’re nice people, helping us get placements and all, but some of
them just need to drop the attitude a notch.

If
your college happens to have a Photography Club, join it only to find an excuse
to spend time with your crush who might happen to be in it. They’ll just go for
a handful of photowalks to Chandni Chowk, Agrasen ki Baoli, Old Fort and then
passively compete with each other on their respective facebook photography
pages.

And
if you can’t make it into any of the clubs, I’d suggest you join AIESEC. I
don’t know about work, but you’ll learn some dance steps in the name of “jive”
which none of your non-AIESECers will give a shit about. You’ll have ample
stories about who got with whom and be seen around Khan Market a lot.

And,
if you decide to join none of them because time nahi hai, then congratulations, you’re already in the Society for
Mutual Appreciation for Praveen Sharma and Ashish Kalra, while you worry for
your upcoming CA exams.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

If a
famous Bollywood song is to be believed, the samundar wields the power to turn women into namkeen. I’d prefer mine to go take a dip and come out as Aaloo Bhujia. Except, I don’t really
know how visually appealing she would look draped in a packet of Haldiram’s. However,
in this age, when such a radical shift is being made from desi namkeen to American food snacks, I believe it’s the perfect
time for some namkeen emancipation.
Trust Ekta Kapoor to buy this idea for a few krores. More so because the namkeen is a woman calling out for
attention from the society, and as we’ve already seen, the best medium to
spread her message is through a daily soap. The biscuits are the unimportant
male characters with names like Monaco and Bourbon. Except for Marie; that one
is just transgender.

Aaloo
Bhujia

The Aaloo Bhujia (AB) is like the
peppy didi in her early twenties who is
just about to get married. But don’t let the word “peppy” confuse you with an
image of Preity Zinta. Think more on the lines of a new face trying to pull a
Kareena Kapoor from Jab We Met. She’s the one who does not shut up about her
love for gol gappe and wishes to play
pitthu with the colony ke bache. Her backless choli and long Sardarni hair are to die for. She’s a favorite with the kids, to whom
she brings a taste close to that of Lay’s Masala Magic, but is still thoroughly
Indian. Dare you call her an aunty, heartburn de degi, heartburn.

Bikaneri
Bhujia

The
older, more mature, and spicy like you cannot handle that shite – the Bikaneri Bhujia (BB) is the saree clad boss of cougar town. The Bhabhi of the house that AB will be
marrying into; the BB will be your bet for the character who turns out to be
the vamp some day, except, she won’t. She’s like the female version of Ronit
Roy from Kasautii Zindagii Kay. You
know this is the closest Indian telly can get to Meryl Streep in a saree with a sleeveless blouse.

Have
you also seen those fat brown globules of shit in the Bikaneri Bhujia packet? That is Ram Kapoor inside of her, refusing
to pull out!

Khatta
Meetha

The
Sakshi Tanwar of Namkeenville, she
doesn’t give you as much acidity as the others. You think the kids will love
her, but there is just so much mamta
right there that teens growing up on American Pie and the like just don’t get
going with that taste. You can expect her to go all: “Aww, mere raja beta ko dudhu chahiye”, when the son screams for MILF
(Munchies I Label as Food).

There’s
a mole on her upper lip to help her live up to the khatta image but everything in the namkeen is so boring, complete with peanuts and sabudana puffs that you just want to
distribute it as parshaad and
convince people that it’s so nice ke isse
vrat mein kha sakte hain.

Moong
Dal

The Baa of Kahaani Haldiram Ki, this namkeen
is so bland that it just goes into this endless loop of
nobody-wanting-to-have-it and
it-does-not-frikkin-end-it’s-still-staring-me-in-the-face. It’s there, offering
nutrition related sanskaar in the
form of salted daal without any
unhealthy masala, but sher ke munh ek
baar bhujia lag jaaye toh phir kya kar sakte hain. You put a rubber-band on
it and keep it aside, but no one is ready to do the dirty work of finishing it.

Navratan
Mix

You
know this shit will make your vocal chords burst because of all the spices it
hits you with. And then it’s like you just stepped into Rajasthan, and Ila Arun
jumped in front of you, refusing to leave till you let her woo you with “Dilli Sheher Mein Maaro”. With a name
like Navratan, it promises you some
nine different types of ingredients mixed in one, but one fistful down your
throat and you recognize it to be Dadi-Sa
or the like from Balika Vadhu: paise (read:
ingredients) toh aa gaye but class nahi
aayi.

Nut
Cracker

The
Goddamn Vamp! Oh this thing is so damn sensuous, it’s like your nuts are on crack.
She tempts you into falling for her and indulge in some adultery. You want her
with the whisky, and her body on your rocks. With the curvy texture et al, she
is the mistress of spices. You know it’ll be extremely painful later, and a
moment of pleasure is not worth the consequences. But, you learn it the hard
way. A hangover, a glass of Eno and some spicy moments down the dark alley are
enough to remind you of your Moong Dal
(read: nani).

Badam
Lachha & the Others

The Badam Lachha is the Bollywood cameo that
comes every Diwali and makes your day extra special. The Boondi is like the Ramu Kaka;
present everywhere, yet hasn’t been honored with the status of a namkeen. And what, you ask, is the person
who just wrote such a zabardasti ka
blog post? It’s the namkeen you get
when you misspell Bhujia to start
with a C and end with a T-I-A.